Help, I'm Alive
by RavenHeart101
Summary: "I lied to you. I'm in some bad shit, Dad. And I'm scared." An accident causes Stiles to take a step back from the things that go bump in the night. The accident also wakes something inside of him, and while the werewolves scramble to figure out who attacked him, he starts dreaming of people long dead. Okay is relative, and normal is simply a state of mind.
1. Chapter 1

Help, I'm Alive

By: RavenHeart101

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Teen Wolf. Or, ya know, shit would happen. The title belongs to the song "Help, I'm Alive" by Metric.

Summary: "I lied to you. I'm in some bad shit, Dad. And I'm scared." An accident causes Stiles to take a step back from the things that go bump in the night. The accident also wakes something inside of him, and while the werewolves scramble to figure out who attacked him, he starts dreaming of people long dead. Okay is relative, and normal is simply a state of mind.

Warnings: Maybe pre-slash? Uh, pre-like every pairing probably. Trigger warning for depression, and anxiety and car accidents and some other stuff that comes with that. Swearing, violence, and the tendency to possibly get things wrong.

**A: N** – This idea's been plaguing me for a while. So then I decided to pitch it to my friends and then I decided to torture you all with the plot too. Yay.

* * *

Smoke floated up into the air, mingling with the rain and coating the already dark sky darker. Off to the left a black truck had its front pushed in, crumbled in on itself. A woman stood off to the side, a smirk on her lips as she spoke into a phone, informing a 911 operator of what happened. She hung up after rattling off the address, throwing it over her shoulder powerfully and the phone plopped down into a pile of bushes. The woman fixed her skirt and started walking down the road, turning and running into the woods. She wouldn't be caught - at least by the police.

In her wake she not only left her truck, still running and broken, but another car - a jeep - rolled over, smashed, and totaled on its side and down a hill. Its glass was almost completely gone, scattered on the grass in chunks. And there, where the smoke was coming from, was the hood of the jeep, torn off beside the car. Whimpers could be heard from inside the vehicle, which soon turned into pained yells, a phone down by his feet, crushed and stuck as they were.

And off in the distance, as sirens started to fill the air, a loud howl was sounded and the race began.

* * *

The Sheriff was sitting in his squad car when he got the call. He had his favorite unhealthy dinner in his lap – curly fries from Arby's and a hamburger – waiting diligently for any sort of call to tell him that he was needed somewhere. Things in town had been oddly silent for a while, and while the Sheriff was thankful for that, this sort of silence always tended to set him on edge. He sighed and scratched at his neck as the radio crackled on. "Accident on Freeman Drive, roll over."

He reached over and unclipped it, already shifting gears and putting his car in drive. "On my way." He stepped on the gas; he wasn't very far away, only five minutes or so. And if it was a roll over it was guaranteed that there would be more than one responding officer. In the back of his mind, the Sheriff did what he always did when he got calls like this – made a mental check of where exactly his son had been when he left him. With Scott and that Lahey boy, sprawled across his bed with an old Batman comic open, even though the Sheriff knew that he wasn't reading it. Which meant that he really had no idea exactly where his son was.

He frowned and shook himself. It wasn't as though the rollover could have been Stiles. His son had company and Scott had driven himself over so it wasn't as though Stiles would need to drive him home. No, the Sheriff thought as he flicked on the lights and siren of the car, there was no way that roll over could be his son.

He pulled over when he caught sight of the accident area, two other squad cars pulled over on the right shoulder. One of the officers – Clancy – was searching through a big, black truck that sported quite a deal of front end damage. The other three officers were nowhere in sight.

"Sheriff!" Clancy yelled when the Sheriff stepped out of his car, the lights still flashing against the rain slicked road. Clancy jogged over to meet him, his pale face already shining paler at the possibility of how bad this accident could have been. "The car's empty. No driver." He nodded over at the truck.

"Who called it in?" The Sheriff fetched a flashlight from his trunk and turned it on with a flick of his finger.

"Anonymous 911, sir." The younger officer sidled up to him.

"There someone in the other car?" He asked, walking around his car and shining the flashlight in the window of the truck just to be sure Clancy wasn't making things up. Not that he didn't trust the other officer, it's just that sometimes you had to be sure.

"Think so, sir. Greg and Nancy went down to check."

"Medics on the way?" The Sheriff started towards the hill. Tire tracks rolled down them before disappearing completely, probably when the car started to turn over. Whoever was driving that truck had probably hit the other car deliberately. He frowned at the skid marks on the wet pavement. They needed a CSU team out here. "CSU on the way?"

"Yes, sir." Clancy nodded and followed after him.

"Set up a perimeter and a detour for traffic." The Sheriff advised and he waved the flashlight down to the bottom of the hill, trying to find the wreck and his other officers. A hood was dislodged and separate not too far from him, cracked and the rain pinged off the metal. It looked familiar. He swallowed down the unnatural terror that clawed at his stomach. No. Stiles was at home with Scott and Lahey and safe.

He wouldn't be out at this time of night.

He shouldn't have been out at this time of night.

"_Stiles_!" He shouted and sprinted down the hill, the flashlight clanging to the ground the moment it passed over the familiar Jeep.

He heard Clancy swear behind him and he nearly tripped and rolled down the hill himself, the wet grass hard to keep a grip on, even in his best sneakers. He must have looked like a lunatic, throwing himself down that hill and pulling Nancy out of the car before crawling in where she had been. Glass cut into his knees and is hands were shaking horribly.

But there was his boy. Slumped against the steering wheel, making some sort of pathetic half yells, broken by sobs and exhaustion. He had blood on his face, blood on his hands, his arm was twisted in an unnatural way, and his eyes were screwed shut. "Stiles." He spoke softly, brokenly himself.

His boy let out a whimper and opened his eyes. They were unfocused, unsure, scared, absolutely terrified.

The Sheriff's hands floundered over his son's broken body, and he bit his lip before throwing a yell over his shoulder. "Where are the medics?!"

"On their way, Sheriff." Greg stuttered out and the Sheriff nodded, knowing that, in reality, it had only been a minute since he had arrived. Only ten since he got the call.

"Dad." His boy's voice was soft, almost devoid of anything but pain.

"I'm here, Stiles." He kept himself kneeled beside him, reaching out to cradle his head in between his hands. He probably should have done that earlier, kept the neck steady. But there wasn't much else that he wanted to do besides hug his son to his chest – make sure that he was okay and that he wasn't going anywhere. _He shouldn't have been out. Shouldn't have been driving. Why had he been driving?_

"S'ry." He slurred and his body slumped just a bit more.

"Don't apologize." _I'm sorry means you're giving up and you're not giving up._ "Where does it hurt?" He had to keep him talking. It was never a problem to keep him talking before.

Stiles was quiet for a long moment, drifting in and out and the Sheriff could tell from the way his body would sway forwards and then back again, almost as though he were afraid that he would be alone if he closed his eyes. "Doesn' hur'."

His eyes fluttered shut and then he let out a low whine. His pulse was weakening under the Sheriff's fingers.

"You're gonna be okay, Stiles." He wasn't sure who he was trying to say it to, himself or his son.

The Sheriff looked down and his stomach dropped at the blood that seemed to be covering his son's legs. The entire drivers' side of the car was crushed in on itself, the roof caved down and the front not too far off from caving in. They were going to need some heavy duty material to get his boy out of this thing. "'M so'ry, d'd." The Sheriff snapped his head up to look at his son.

Resigned and tears coated his pale cheeks. "You have nothing to be sorry for, kid." _Why were you out at this time? Why? _

"I li'd."

The Sheriff shut his eyes for a moment before opening them. He had known his son had lied to him – had been lying to him. He had just chosen to believe that Stiles would tell him the truth one day, and that, hopefully, it wasn't anything truly bad or illegal that his son was doing. "It's okay." And if he got out of this okay and alive than it truly would be okay. He didn't care if his son had been killing people, so long as he was alive.

He brushed the glass that was Stiles' shirt off with a shaking hand, trying his best to smile reassuredly. It didn't work. And Stiles let out a shout of pain when the Sheriff pressed too hard. "Shit." He muttered and that press seemed to wake something up in his son because suddenly he was sputtering and crying harder than the Sheriff had ever seen him cry. Harder than he had when his mother died, harder than he used to during one of his panic attacks. "Shit, shit." His hands floundered over his son's broken body. Where was he supposed to place them? It was as though Stiles was a child again and the Sheriff didn't know the right way to hold him without hurting him. "You're okay." He whispered as soothingly as he could, even though his own cheeks were started to feel wet. "You're okay." He smoothed down his son's hair and kept one hand securely on his neck, holding it in place as much as he could.

It didn't seem to work. The Sheriff never felt so helpless than he did at that moment.

His boy was crying loudly, yelling and screaming and he supposed he should be happy that at least it wasn't silence. But there had to be a way to help him. There just had to be away to help him.

Sirens started in the distance and the Sheriff looked up at Nancy from where she was kneeling in the back, her hands floating around to grab Stiles' neck and hold it in place. She nodded at him and he nodded back, leaning forwards to rest his head against his son's. The glass cut into his knees and legs even farther. He didn't care.

Eventually his yells gave way to whimpers and even more crying and he was probably making himself sick. "You're okay." The Sheriff said again and continued to smooth his hair, brushing it off his forehead and back again. "You're okay."

"Down here!" It was Greg's voice as the sirens filled the air. The Sheriff couldn't really hear them, though, too focused on his boy to hear anything other than each breath that he took and each noise he made and, if he listened close enough, he was sure he could hear each tear hit the seat belt that was still around his body, holding him in place.

"M'sorry, m'so'ry." Stiles cried over and over again and the Sheriff just held on tighter.

"Shh, you're okay."

"Sir, we have to get through." A paramedic tried to move him out from beside his son.

"No." He fought them back. "This is my son."

"Sheriff, please." Greg hoisted him back and him and Clancy held him back. Even as Stiles started yelling again. Screaming for him. "You have to let them do their job."

"They're hurting him!" It was irrational. They weren't hurting him. They were probably doing their best not to hurt him. And it wasn't as though the Sheriff would rather Stiles be stuck in that car forever. Some pain was going to be given in order to remove him from it.

"Sheriff, you're bleeding." Another paramedic skidded next to him, looking down at his cut legs.

He blinked at her. Was he supposed to care? "Help my son." He ordered her and she stared at him for a moment before nodding and running off to help the others.

He didn't slump back into the grip of his other officers and they didn't let go. Which was a good thing, for, if they did, he would probably have flown forwards and pushed his way to his screaming son anyway.

He could see them through the smashed in windows, one of them securing a neck brace over Nancy's hands before she slid them out. Another checking for a pulse. Another cutting off the seat belt.

"We need a back board!" One of them yelled out, and someone automatically handed it over. He should probably be thankful for the promptness in the way they were acting. But he couldn't help wondering what took them so long to get there in the first place.

In reality, it had only been a few minutes after he had.

"Let's get him out." One of the older paramedics said in a rush. "Come on people!" They snapped back into action, and they turned him sideways. Stiles was scarily silent after that.

"Why is he quiet?" He asked the other officers quickly. "Stiles!" They renewed their tight grip on him as he tried to lunge forward. "Why is he quiet?!"

"Sheriff calm down!" Greg grabbed at his shirt and pulled him back sharply. "You're not going to help him if you keep acting like this!"

He knew he was right. Knew he couldn't just stop worrying though. His fellow officers understood that much, anyway. "Just let them do their job, sir." Nancy added stiffly, she touched his arm gently and nodded down at his cut legs. "You're going to need those to be looked at, sir."

"Not until he's all set."

She nodded and stood at his side.

Stiles was pulled from the car then, and he looked even worse now than he did in the Jeep. His face, the Sheriff could see now, was covered in tiny cuts, a big gash on his cheek and forehead from where a piece of glass had cut and from where he had slammed his head on the steering wheel. His arm was definitely broken, his leg was losing too much blood and those were just the injuries they could see. But the most terrifying thing of it all was the fact that his eyes were open, but he wasn't making any sort of noise. The moment he was moved from the car he had an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth. "We need to get him to a hospital, stat!" They rushed him up the hill and the Sheriff followed, stopping when something a-light caught his eye.

At the bottom of the car, where his son's feet had been, was his phone. He kneeled down and picked it up, pressing the home button with shaking fingers. A piece of glass snagged the skin and the screen was cracked into a dozen tiny pieces.

But he could still make out the name that had been pulled up on his son's phone. _Derek_.

He frowned and dropped the phone before rushing up the hill after the paramedics. The only Derek his son knew was Derek Hale. And, as far as the Sheriff knew, those two weren't even on speaking terms. Yes, there was something odd going on, but no; the Sheriff wasn't going to focus on it. Not now. Not when his son was being packed into the back of an ambulance.

No one questioned him when he jumped into the back of the ambulance with them, they all knew who Stiles was, and all knew who his father was. Stiles' eyes found his and the Sheriff gently dragged his hand up to his lips, kissing the knuckles lightly and holding the hand tightly in both of his own. He could see the cuts there too. Could see so much blood. He knew it wasn't natural to lose so much blood. Wasn't natural at all.

"Let's go." One of the paramedics slammed the doors closed and the driver stepped on the gas, the sirens filling the air and the vehicle snapping forwards at an unnatural speed. "What's his name, Sheriff?" The paramedic asked as they hung up an IV bag and got to work on cutting off his shirt to see what was under there.

One of his coworkers was working on his boy's leg, cutting off the jeans to get at the gash. It looked nasty, some of the blood crusted over and almost looking black from the pure amount of it. "Stiles." He muttered. "His full name is Genim."

The paramedic nodded and grabbed a small flashlight. "Stiles?" He shinned it in his son's eyes. The boy looked away from him and turned his head towards his father's knee. "Stiles, can you talk?"

He seemed confused by the question and just shut his eyes and leaned a bit closer to his father. The Sheriff felt his throat constrict at the sight. "Unresponsive." The paramedic deemed and Stiles' eyes fluttered shut.

"Hey, hey." The Sheriff squeezed the hand that was in his own. "Stay awake, kid." _Never thought I'd have to say that. _Stiles seemed inclined to listen, his eyes snapping open, unfocused as they were. He's lost too much blood, the little voice that sounded suspiciously like his dead wife pointed out in the back of his mind.

Stiles' mouth moved to form words behind the oxygen mask. The Sheriff leaned close, trying to make out what it was he was trying to say. His breath caught. _Mom_. He was mouthing out mom and looking somewhere behind his father and the Sheriff had never been more scared in his life. "Stay with me, Stiles, please."

But his son's eyes still fluttered shut and the paramedic still swore and grabbed one of the oxygen pumps and his hand still slackened in his own. "We're losing him!" The paramedic yelled out and one of the paramedics pushed him out of the way, beginning compressions on his son's chest. The ambulance picked up speed. "Paddles?" One of the others grabbed them down from the shelf they were on.

He rubbed them together and held them over his son's chest, waiting for the charge and then he pressed them down to the skin. His boy's body jumped violently before settling back down. "Come on, kid!" The paramedic whispered. "You can't leave your dad like this."

She pressed them to his chest again and then the one checking his pulse waved her off. "He's back!"

"We're here!"

The Sheriff let out a stream of breath and rushed after them as they pulled him from the back of the ambulance and in through the emergency doors.

His son was swarmed by people in a matter of seconds, someone calling ahead to warn the staff of what was coming in. "John?" Melissa McCall grabbed onto his arms and stopped him from going any farther. "You can't go after them, John." She told him, holding him back. He looked at her for a long moment.

"Make sure he's okay." He begged her and she nodded, squeezing his forearm before rushing after her coworkers as he slumped into a chair, his head falling into his hands.

Another nurse came over and asked him to follow her to a room himself, to check at the cuts that covered his legs from the glass. He followed her numbly, silently, his mind spinning with the echo of his son's screams.

He settled back into a chair in the waiting room, a pair of scrubs now covering his body and one of Melissa's friends sitting down beside him, offering him a cup of water. It was a waiting game now.

He sent up a quick prayer that his son would be alive. Okay was relative, alive… that was all he wanted.

* * *

**A: N** - So... we want more? Or should Raven not write Teen Wolf fanfic? Like ever?


	2. Chapter 2

Help, I'm Alive

By: RavenHeart101

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Teen Wolf. Or, ya know, shit would happen. The title belongs to the song "Help, I'm Alive" by Metric.

Summary: "I lied to you. I'm in some bad shit, Dad. And I'm scared." An accident causes Stiles to take a step back from the things that go bump in the night. The accident also wakes something inside of him, and while the werewolves scramble to figure out who attacked him, he starts dreaming of people long dead. Okay is relative, and normal is simply a state of mind.

Warnings: Maybe pre-slash? Uh, pre-like every pairing probably. Trigger warning for depression, and anxiety and car accidents and some other stuff that comes with that. Swearing, violence, and the tendency to possibly get things wrong.

**A: N** – Got a better response for the first chapter than I expected. Wow. Thanks guys!

* * *

Melissa didn't know what she had expected when she got the call. It certainly wasn't this. No, Melissa had never expected that the person in the rollover would be Stiles – her son's best friend and the boy she avoided saying was like her own some days. But avoid no more, Melissa felt as though her heart was being torn into pieces at the sight of the boy there on the white hospital bed. He had made it through surgery but it had been a struggle.

Melissa remembered being pushed out of the room the first time they had lost him on the table. Forced to go wait with John Stilinski in the waiting room. That was perhaps worse than helping with the surgery.

Melissa sighed and readjusted the sheets around Stiles' body. He looked younger like this, or perhaps he actually looked his age. How long had it been since Stiles had actually acted like he was seventeen, or been treated like he was that old, for that matter? Melissa was ashamed to say that she didn't know.

She had called Scott not too long ago – told him what had happened. She tried to convince him not to come, but it was to no avail, Scott was well on his way to a panic attack and she was sure if she had not told him to take the car he would have shown up full wolf.

Stiles made a noise from the bed and Melissa's hands froze, hovering over his damaged body (three broken ribs, a broken arm, severely bruised lungs, concussion bordering on coma, a gash that went so far into his leg that it cut through muscle and went down to the bone, dozens and dozens of cuts and bruises and stitches that would result in scars). His face was screwed up in pain and she squeezed the emergency call button, sitting down next to him and rubbing his… less damaged arm. Her fingers worked lightly over the skin and she made soothing, hushing sounds. "Shh," She soothed, much like she used to when Scott was a little boy after his father left. "Shh, Stiles. You're okay."

He whimpered again and shifted into her touch rather than away. Her eyes flitted over his face, the stiches that pulled the skin back together on his cheek, the bandage on his forehead, the bruises under his eyes. The only spot on his face that didn't seem an abnormal color were his lips. Melissa frowned as she glanced down at them, and frowned even harder at the way they moved. Like he was trying to say something. She leaned closer. "Mom." And then she leaned back.

"Oh Stiles." She whispered at the thought of what the poor boy must be dreaming of. She had hoped he was at least getting some sort of peaceful sleep. Not that Melissa thought that him dreaming of his mother wouldn't be peaceful. She reached up and brushed back his hair from his forehead. It had gotten longer than the boy would appreciate, Melissa was sure. She should call in someone to cut it in the near future, at least to make him happy when he woke up, get this fringe out of his eyes. "You're okay, sweetheart." She reassured as best she could.

"Mom." His voice was sharper, with a twinge of pain to his voice that had nothing to do with his accident.

She grabbed his hand in her own, paying close attention to the cuts on the back of it. On this particular hand, his right, he had needed a few stitches on one particularly nasty looking cut.

It was crazy to think what damage a car could do to someone.

"Shh, you're okay." She repeated softly, even when her fellow nurse, Cheyanne, walked in and administered the pain medication. "You're okay, Stiles."

* * *

Stiles was five years old, and he was baking cookies with his mother. "Stand up straight, baby." She placed a hand on his back, standing behind him as he stood on a stool to roll the cookie dough. He placed an oddly shaped ball of dough on the tray in front of him.

"Momma, when is daddy coming home?" He asked innocently, his blue t-shirt pulling up his back as he stood on his toes to scoop out another handful of dough.

"Well, I don't know, Stiles." She rubbed back his hair, leaning down to peck his forehead. "But the later daddy comes home the more cookies for us." She rubbed down his sides and smiled widely at him.

He smiled back, giggling as she leaned close to help him roll another ball of dough.

The memory started to fade around the edges, until it was completely black and suddenly he was seventeen again, instead of five, and he was standing in the middle of his kitchen, dough long gone from his hands, and pain all over his body. He let out a shout and collapsed to the ground.

His breath was short and he pressed a hand against his leg, a sharp, wet pain resonating within him. He pulled his hand away with a surprised shout. It was sticky and red and with fear Stiles looked down at the gash that was cut through his thigh.

"Stiles." When he looked up he was outside and it was dark. There were woods all around him and large, beautiful house stood off to the side. It seemed familiar in a way that somewhere in a dream might. It was large and painted white, big enough for a big family, and around three cars were parked out front. Good, sturdy looking cars. "Stiles." He jumped and spun away from the house.

And there, walking towards him was his own mother. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, a chestnut brown like his own, but her eyes were a bright green, his own a more muted color like his father. She smiled and held her arms out wide and, if Stiles could, he would have run to her and into her arms.

"Mom?" But he still had to be sure. He hadn't seen her in so long and he prayed that she could take away his pain, just like a mother always is supposed to do.

"Baby." She walked closer, kneeling down next to him and leaning close to touch his arm. "Oh my baby, what have they done to you?"

He shut his eyes and leaned in close to her, the warmth of her body running through his own. "Mom."

Only when he opened them she was no longer there. He winced and turned his head away from the bright lights of the room he was in. "Stiles?" The voice was familiar, one he had heard too many times. Scott.

"No." He didn't want to be back. Why couldn't he have stayed with her, just a while longer?

"Oh my god, Stiles." Scott was holding onto his hand and leaning across him for something. "You're okay. You're safe now."

He gasped as a press of pain passed down his abdomen and through his arm, down to his leg, up into his head. It was all through his body. All consuming and too much. He gasped.

"I can help, I can help." Scott rushed to put a hand on his chest but Stiles thrashed against it.

"No!" He cried out.

"Let me help you, please!" Scott begged.

"Scott!" A rougher voice, deeper, darker, holding a tone of warning, and yet Stiles welcomed it because still, that voice had yet to change. He opened his eyes when he friend's body was gone from his. In a darkened corner of his room Derek stood, an arm braced tightly over Scott's chest. "You're not helping him if he doesn't want it."

"But I can make the pain go away!" Scott insisted.

The door to the room opened and a nurse was at his side. Melissa. That woman was like a second mother to him, kind and gentle where others were not. There for him when his father would spend late nights at work. "Scott, if you can't calm down leave the room." She leaned close and stuck a needle in his IV, the pain medication kicking in not too long after that.

"Mom, please." Scott moaned and Stiles should feel bad, he should. It was obvious that Scott only wanted to help. "I can help him."

"No more." Stiles gasped out as the edges of his vision started to fade again. "No more, please." Tears prickled in his eyes. It felt final – more final than Matt's death had felt. It felt as though he were ending something that had barely even begun.

The room was silent after that and Stiles watched as Derek slowly let go of Scott, his own eyes watching him. "Okay." Derek nodded and turned to walk away, stopping in the doorway as though he had more to say. But then he simply shook his head and continued on his way out.

Scott, on the other hand, rushed to his side. "Stiles, come on. Let me help. Please."

"Go away." He turned his head away from his closest friend. "Just go away." He cried softly and Melissa held onto his hand, shooing Scott away with the other before placing it on his cheek and rubbing it gently with the pad of her thumb.

Scott didn't leave though, instead he stayed, slumped back down in the seat he had been in before. Silent, yet obviously pained. Melissa soothed as best she could. "I'm going to go get your dad, okay, Stiles?" And didn't that sound like music to his ears? Crying like a scared fool like he was, Stiles wanted nothing more than the safe touch of his father, holding him tight and making him feel as though nothing, not even ten thousand werewolves, could harm him.

"Why won't you let me help you, Stiles?" Scott asked after his mother left the room, misery etched into his voice.

Stiles didn't answer because he wasn't so sure himself. All he knew was that he wanted to be just plain human Stiles once more. He didn't want to be the Stiles that knew all about the world within their own. He wanted to go back to worrying about school and homework and college and how to get Lydia Martin to notice him (not that he was into Lydia now, he had gotten over that somewhere between Jackson becoming a kanima and Jackson becoming a wolf).

His father walked into the room, swiftly sitting at his side and holding onto his hand. He felt safer now. It was odd how his father could do that. Still, he drifted off into a medicated sleep, his father's hand in his own and a grief that he could not control entering into his body. Where it came from he wasn't sure.

* * *

The Sheriff sat back in the uncomfortable chair, his son's hand in his own, not as limp as it had been in the accident, but still limp from sleep. His head was turned towards him, as though scared that if he wasn't looking at him he would leave. He had been dreaming of his mother, the Sheriff had heard that much from Melissa. It wasn't that that disturbed him, it simply worried him.

A lot worried him.

A lot more should be worrying him.

He should probably go home and grab a change of clothes. Should probably go home and check in at the station. Should find out why Stiles had been calling Derek Hale. Should figure out who had hit his son's car and why they had walked away. Should figure out what Stiles had been lying to him about.

But, instead, he was more worried about his son simply making it through the next night. He couldn't help it – his little boy looked so much smaller than he had for the last three years. He had been growing; the Sheriff knew that all boys grew. But nothing managed to make him look more aged than when he looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. The Sheriff had seen the same look on Scott a few times, seen the same look on Allison and Jackson. But there was nothing quite like seeing it on his son.

Nothing was more terrifying than the thought that his son may have made enemies with the wrong sort of people and ended getting himself into the wrong sort of trouble.

The Sheriff sighed and leaned closer. "What are you hiding, Stiles?" He asked softly.

He had sent Scott home not too long ago – told him to leave and get some sleep and that he would see him tomorrow, after school. Not that the Sheriff believed that Scott would actually be going to school. As a matter of a fact, the Sheriff was expecting that Stiles would have his best friend camped out at his bedside again the moment visiting hours started.

Melissa had gone home with Scott, urging the Sheriff to do the same. He had turned her down, though. He was more worried about what may happen to his son overnight to leave him all alone. And since he was the Sheriff he was allowed to stay – no one would question something like this.

Stiles was sleeping soundly as far as the Sheriff could tell, dreaming, not a nightmare since he wasn't twitching. His breathing was normal, vitals as normal as they could be considering the circumstances. It would probably be more than okay for the Sheriff to get some sleep too.

He just wasn't sure if he would like what he would see when he closed his eyes.

Odd to think that it had only been a day since the accident now, when it felt like it had been four years. The Sheriff felt as though he had aged one hundred years simply waiting to hear from the doctors about his son. Felt as though his own life had been torn from him when he heard that they had almost lost him twice on the table. The Sheriff still got terrified to think about it. If Stiles had died than he had failed his wife. He had promised her that he would keep Stiles safe until he was someone else's responsibility. Which the Sheriff and his wife had jokingly said would be never.

He dragged a hand down his face and squeezed the hand in his own. The Sheriff settled back into his chair, his head sliding down to rest on his chest and his eyes shutting just as his son's opened for a moment.

In the dark, Stiles caught a glimpse of something – of someone – standing behind his father. A young boy, with dark hair and a burn down his face. He smiled and held out his hand, a golden chain dropping down from his fingers, a silver wolf dangling from the end. The little boy held up a finger to his lips before dropping it into Stiles' free hand. Stiles blinked at the cold, smooth edges under his fingertips. When he opened his eyes the boy was gone, but the chain remained, a heavy weight in his hand.

* * *

"Do we know who did it?" Isaac asked from his corner of the flat, his body stiff and rigid in his chair. His back was ramrod straight and his hair was a mess. Boyd wasn't much better, though he fared better in the hair department simply because he had none, standing by the bookshelf with his arms across his chest and a frown on his face. Erica seemed to be composing herself better, though not by much. She hadn't bothered with makeup today, instead she had left herself natural with her hair in a quick pony tail.

None of them had gotten much sleep.

"I'm guessing a rival pack." Peter spoke for Derek who, instead, was sitting in his own seat, brooding more than usual.

"Why would a rival pack attack Stiles?" Erica asked when no one else seemed to question it.

Even Peter didn't seem to know how to answer that one, looking at his nephew, the alpha, for assistance. "Stiles is an asset." Derek spoke slowly.

"A human amongst wolves." Peter said in understanding.

"I don't get why that's important." Isaac responded. "Why not go after Lydia? Or Allison? Why him?"

"Because he's important." Derek snapped, and Isaac retreated.

"How?" Boyd asked after a moment of silence.

Derek took a swing of the drink in front of him, not looking at any of his pack and, instead, staring at the swirls in the wooden table. "I'm not sure how yet."

* * *

**A:N** – And that is chapter two! Hope I've kept everyone in character….


	3. Chapter 3

Help, I'm Alive

By: RavenHeart101

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Teen Wolf. Or, ya know, shit would happen. The title belongs to the song "Help, I'm Alive" by Metric.

Summary: "I lied to you. I'm in some bad shit, Dad. And I'm scared." An accident causes Stiles to take a step back from the things that go bump in the night. The accident also wakes something inside of him, and while the werewolves scramble to figure out who attacked him, he starts dreaming of people long dead. Okay is relative, and normal is simply a state of mind.

Warnings: Maybe pre-slash? Uh, pre-like every pairing probably. Trigger warning for depression, and anxiety and car accidents and some other stuff that comes with that. Swearing, violence, and the tendency to possibly get things wrong.

**A: N** – Boooo. Welcome to chapter three.

* * *

Allison slumped down in her seat, twirling her pen in her fingers and glanced sideways at the empty seat to her left. Scott was practically lying on his desk, his head buried so far in his arms it was like he was trying to mold himself into one large Scott-blob. Stiles' seat was empty in front of him. It had been empty for the past week.

Allison sighed and looked down at her empty notebook. She had yet to really work up the courage to ask Scott how he was doing – how Stiles was doing, how the Sheriff was doing, how Scott was doing. She had yet to work up the courage to really speak about the accident to anyone. Everyone else was talking about it – even the teachers. But Allison had kept her mouth shut. And she was quite surprised when Jackson of all people snapped at one of the people making fun of what happened. "It's not a fucking circus act." He had snapped and the others had backed down. Not many people had talked about it since then.

Allison wondered if Stiles knew just how many people cared about him. She had a feeling he didn't.

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd were all mysteriously silent and she had seen Scott with them more than she had seen Scott with Lydia or Danny or Jackson. But it seemed almost like they were making him hang out with them. They always came to him, he never came to them. No… Scott was almost in a perpetual state of half aware. Mrs. Sarlo – their math teacher – called on Scott, obviously sensing his lack of attention. Allison couldn't help thinking just how cruel that was of her to do. Obviously Scott didn't know how to do the problem and she was only embarrassing him by calling him up to the front to demonstrate in front of the class.

She glared and Scott made no motion to move. Almost as though he hadn't heard a word she had said. His fingertips brushed against the back of the empty seat that Stiles usually accompanied. "Mister McCall." She tried again, sterner this time.

More than a few of the students in the room had tensed and more than a few of the students had turned back to look at Scott.

Still, Scott made no motion to move towards the front of the class.

"Mrs. Sarlo?" Lydia's hand shot out and Allison jumped at the sound of her voice coming from behind her.

"Yes, Lydia?" The teacher finally tore her eyes from Scott's profile.

"I'll do the problem." She gave the teacher no room for argument, standing up with an elegance and arrogance that only Lydia could have and walked up to the board. For a few seconds the only sound in the room was the sound of chalk on the black board and then Lydia circled her answer and clapped her hands together. The chalk dust floated from her hands and onto the floor as her heels tapped against it.

Lydia had been acting strangely too, Allison had noticed. She hadn't spoken to Scott either, hadn't talked to anyone really. But she had held on tightly to Jackson whenever she saw him, gave Allison a tighter, harder, longer hug than she usually did at the end and beginning to every day. Dimly Allison wondered just how close Lydia had considered herself to Stiles. Wondered if Stiles and Lydia had ever talked about what it was that was going on in Beacon Hills. Allison hated how much she had isolated herself after the death of her mother. Not that that wasn't understandable but… Allison couldn't shake the feeling that she could have stopped this somehow. Or at least given Stiles more of a fighting chance.

The bell rang and Allison snapped back to reality. She had missed the assignment for the night but she couldn't bring herself to really worry about that. Instead she worried about Scott. Silent, stoic Scott. Who grabbed his back sluggishly and made his way over to the classroom door at a much more subdued pace than usual.

She acted on impulse.

It made her heart hurt to see him like this. "Scott!" She grabbed her own things and chased after him. "Scott, wait up!" Lydia looked at her in shock but followed at a more subdued speed. Backup in case she needed it perhaps. Or maybe Lydia just wanted to know how Stiles was herself. Though, usually, Lydia had no problem asking and getting the information that she wanted.

Scott didn't stop, though. It was almost like he didn't hear her. It hurt, but Allison tried to understand. Stiles was Scott's best friend, had been there when Allison wasn't and when Allison was. They'd known each other for ages. Allison couldn't replace that bond. Not that she wanted to. She walked beside him, gripping the strap of her back tightly. Lydia walked on the other side of Scott. "Scott?" Allison found his eyes and they were tired. Exhausted. Confused. Hurt. Scared. Worried. And yet, somewhere in there, there was relief.

"How's Stiles?" It was Danny who asked, not that Allison knew where Danny had come from.

Scott glanced up at him and shrugged. "How are you?" Allison pressed, wanting nothing more than to reach out and hold his hand in her own.

His eyes found hers and he looked almost angry, feral, scary if Allison wasn't who she was. "I'm fine." He finally said, dropping her gaze and rubbing at his forehead in clear distress. He obviously hadn't been sleeping as much as he should be.

"Can we visit him?" Lydia asked through the silence, her voice smaller than Allison had ever heard it.

Scott just shrugged. "Up to the Sheriff." He started to walk faster and Lydia and Danny let him, as though he had given them all they wanted. He probably had. They weren't really worried about Scott, they were worried about Stiles, ever since they had struck up an odd sort of friendship with him the year before.

"Scott wait!" Allison ran after him, because while she was worried about Stiles she was also worried about Scott. Worried about how he was handling something like this. "Scott!" She grabbed onto his arm and he spun to look at her, anger on his face. He growled.

"What?" He asked her through clenched teeth.

"You don't know who did this, do you?" She pulled away slowly.

"We're working on it."

"So are we, Scott." He looked up at her, almost as though he were shocked. "He's my friend too. And he's innocent."

"He works with wolves."

"So do I." Or she hoped she did anyway, she used to.

Scott studied her for a moment before nodding and starting his slow walk to the cafeteria. She walked beside him. "He wouldn't let me help him." Scott said softly. That must have been what was bothering him, what was still bothering him.

"How would you help him, Scott?" Her voice was kind.

"Take away his pain." Scott shrugged. "But he wouldn't let me."

Allison made a sympathetic noise. "He was probably out of it." She shook her head slowly. "That much trauma… they have him on some heavy drugs."

"No you don't get it, Allison." He turned to face her, and his expression begged her to understand. "It was like… It was like he was scared of me."

"Scott…."

"I've never seen him like that, Allison." He shook his head and his eyes shone with worry. "He's never been scared of me before."

* * *

Stiles was ten, playing on a playground. His father was a bench next to his partner on the force – Nina – and not too long ago he had given into his exhaustion and fallen asleep. His mother had been dead for two years. Stiles was playing on the playground by himself. Well, there were other kids, but none that were willing to play with Stiles. It had been two years, but he was still the poor little boy whose mother had died.

He slid down the slide for probably the tenth time now, his sneakered feet hitting the wood chips softly. "Hi!" A small, brown haired boy stood in front of him, his hand out to help him stand. Stiles tilted his head to the side before taking it. "Do you want to play with me and my sister?" He gestured to a younger girl, equally as dark haired, sitting under a tree. Stiles nodded happily. Finally someone was talking to him again.

"I'm Stiles." He introduced himself.

"That's a cool name." The boy said and plopped down on the grass next to his sister, picking a flower out of the ground and tucking it behind the little girl's hair. It was yellow and it brought out the gold in her blue eyes.

The sky above them started to darken, as though a storm was rolling in. The little boy smiled at him but his smile quickly faded at something behind Stiles. He turned around sharply, but all he saw was a flash of orange and heat on his face before he jerked back against the soft sheets of the hospital bed. His heart monitor must have done something funny, because his father jerked awake at the same time he did, looking at him in alarm.

He was okay for a moment, stunned that he wasn't at the playground anymore. And then an echo of a pain spread through his body, coating his bones and floating into his lungs. The monitor started to beep faster and faster. His father shot up to his feet, pressing the emergency button and leaning over him. "Stiles." He called for his attention. "Stiles, it's okay." Only it wasn't okay. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Why couldn't he tell his father how much it hurt?

The little girl, blue eyes and brown hair and a yellow flower twisted against her ear, sat herself down next to him, her forehead creased in worry almost. She gently reached out a hand, trailing it down his cheek – fire burned through his veins in the wake of her touch.

"Go away." He said the best he could. A nurse came running to the room, his door banging against the wall. His father held onto his arms tightly, holding him in place as best he could.

The little girl leaned harder against his side, her hand tugging on his own and trying to open his fist. The necklace, the one the little boy had given him the night before, was cold against his palm. The charm dug into his skin. Her tiny fingers tried to pry open his own. For some reason, he wouldn't let her open it. "Go away!" He yelled and the girl flew back, startled. His body banged against his father's grasp. The nurse let out a strangled sort of noise and ran from the room to get some help. A panic attack they were thinking.

"Stiles it's fine!" His father gripped him tighter, careful of all the cuts and bruises.

Another nurse came in, bigger this time, stronger, male. He pressed something into Stiles' IV and he felt his bones grow heavy.

The little girl reached out towards him again, kneeling down next to him on the bed and leaning close. Her hair brushed against his cheek and he turned his face away from her and into his father's shoulder. "Go away." He cried into the fabric. His father smoothed a hand down his back and laid him back down. Stiles wouldn't let go though.

Maybe his father would make her go away.

Her breath brushed against his ear and she breathed in deeply. "See a penny, pick it up." She whispered. "And all good day you'll have good luck." She breathed against his ear for a while before the breathing stopped.

Slowly he cracked open his eyes and glanced to the side. There was nothing where the little girl had been.

He let out a sigh of relief and his eyes started to close. A nurse's legs were in his line of vision before he sluggishly turned his head back towards his father. Dimly he noticed Isaac looking at him from behind a window in the hospital hallway. He shut his eyes and reached out blindly for his father's hand. He held on tightly as his vision started to disappear. Standing behind his father was a taller woman. Beautiful, slender. Familiar. She nodded at him seriously. "You're safe, Stiles." She assured at the same time his father brushed back his hair from his forehead and held his hand up close to his chest. Feeling his heartbeat. Like Stiles used to do when he was younger.

And then he was asleep, his breathing evened out, his hand slackening in his father's.

* * *

"Sheriff." The Sheriff jerked out of an uneasy sleep at the newly arrived figure that stood in the doorway of his son's hospital room. He hadn't gone home for more than a few minutes in the morning to take a shower and grab a change of clothes. He also grabbed a few books for his son to keep himself entertained. Momentarily he felt bad that he couldn't bring him his computer or his phone but the phone was in evidence and the staff had asked not to bring in computers because they could mess with all the machines he was on. But after what had happened only a few hours before the Sheriff was pretty sure he wouldn't be leaving Stiles to even take a shower as long as he was in the hospital. "How is he?"

He looked up slowly at Chris Argent before looking back down at his son. He shifted so that he was in a more comfortable position. "He's fighting."

Chris nodded as if that was an acceptable answer before sitting down in a chair next to him. "Sheriff…" He wanted to ask something. Obviously he didn't know what to ask.

"What are you doing here, Argent?" The Sheriff would apologize for the snappish quality of his voice later. But now he was running off what little sleep he could catch and four cups of coffee. He wasn't in the mood to listen to anyone's small talk.

"Allison was worried about him." Chris finished lamely. "I told her she could come so long as she got your permission."

"Allison's always welcome." Because she was Stiles' friend and a nice girl. He didn't get the same gut feeling with her that he got with her father or Derek Hale. Like they were dangerous. No, Allison was a nice girl and if there was anything that she was it wasn't a threat to his son. "Why didn't you just call?"

Chris shifted uncomfortably. "I wanted to make sure you were okay, myself." The Sheriff shot him an incredulous look. "Your son is a very bright boy. And I know how hard this must be for you. Especially since… you're going through this alone."

"I'm not going through this alone." He said stiffly.

He didn't say anything else and neither did Chris. After a few minutes of silence Chris left, bidding them goodbye and promising to send word to Allison that she was allowed to visit.

The Sheriff settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. Melissa would be in to visit and check up on both of them anytime now, Scott sure to be following in tow. He should catch some sleep.

But every time he shut his eyes he was back at that accident scene and his boy was yelling out for him. And every time it got harder to get him safe.

* * *

Finally, on the third day, Scott got some time alone with Stiles. The Sheriff was in the bathroom and his mother was down at the cafeteria to grab something to eat. He had mentioned to the Sheriff that Lydia, Danny and maybe even Jackson wanted to visit him to see how he was doing so he suspected the Sheriff would be going down to the front desk to make sure the nurses knew they were allowed to visit whenever they came to the hospital.

Stiles was playing some game on his father's phone, a frown on his face but his eyes lighter than they had been all week. "Hey." Scott said softly and Stiles glanced up at him before going back to the game.

"Hi." He grunted as his character died and placed the phone down next to him. "Tell me you brought me something fun." He said miserably, his head resting back against his pillows. Scott could see his bruises much easier now. Could see the cuts and could smell the blood.

He could also smell the hospital and a faint scent of smoke. He was confused by that one still. Mostly, it set his wolf on edge that Stiles no longer smelt like Stiles.

"How- how are you feeling?" Because even though Stiles was his best friend, him and Scott weren't used to having these… heart-to-hearts.

Stiles shrugged uselessly – shrugged as best as he could anyway. "I'll even take homework." He implored desperately, avoiding Scott's question in a manner that only Stiles could do.

Not lying, just avoiding. Scott would know if he was lying. With or without his werewolf hearing. "Your dad brought you some books." Scott handed one to him and Stiles took it greedily, opening up to a random page, his eyes floating from word to word faster than Scott would have been able to process it.

"Scott." He said softly without looking up from the book. "No more, okay?"

"No more, what?" Scott furrowed his eyebrows.

"No more… werewolves."

"I don't get what you're saying." Only he did. Scott wasn't stupid. He just wanted Stiles to prove him wrong.

"I don't… want to know. Anymore."

"Stiles, man-."

"Please." Stiles turned a page in his book. "Please just… I don't want to do this anymore, man."

Scott fell silent, sitting back in his chair. "Are we… Are you still…"

"You're still my best friend, Scott." He rolled his eyes as though it was stupid of Scott to ever think differently. "I just… It got me into this. And I can't put my dad through this. Not again."

Scott nodded as though he understood and he did, to a point. It was like when he had first gotten bitten and didn't want to talk to Stiles about handling it or get help from Derek. Only a bit more extreme. "What do you mean… it got you into this?" Scott focused on that though, because that was the part he didn't understand.

Stiles shook his head slowly. "I'm not… sure."

For the rest of the visit Stiles looked down at his book but no pages turned. They were silent. And Scott pretended not to notice the very old looking chain Stiles had wrapped around his most injured hand, always kept in a fist, almost as though he were hiding something from Scott's view.

* * *

**A:N** - Still got readers? Anyone that anyone wants to see more of? Just curious.


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